Behind the Mask
by La-Garce-Fille
Summary: They're just monsters. Murderers that laugh in the face of death, relishing in their chaos. Or, are they? Behind the facades of the villainous Akatsuki members, they're people. And all people have little hobbies they enjoy. (Rated T for language and some sensitive themes.)
1. Hidan

A/N: Hello, everyone! This story is going to be ALLLLL about our favorite baddies: The Akatsuki! I think it'd be nice to look at the Akatsuki members as just normal people with normal hobbies, like everyone else!

Disclaimer: I own nothing relating to _Naruto_! ...Unfortunately. *sighs*

 **WARNINGS** : This _is_ Hidan, so there is some bad language, as well as mentions of child abuse.

* * *

 _Hidan_

It was something his mother had taught him when he was a kid, before she was murdered by his drunk, bastard father.

In reality, it was almost comical. He was a terrifying Akatsuki member, true immortal, and Jashin zealot, and yet he enjoyed fucking _flower pressing_.

While he did his best to repress any memories of that shitty village, especially during his equally shitty childhood, there were a few things he'd allow himself to remember. He remembered his mother as being kind and warm, with an interest in the _prettier_ things of life. He remembered her long silver hair, similar to his own, swaying in the breeze as they trekked through the steam of the springs to the small meadow on the outskirts of the village. She kneeled down next to all the bright colors, choosing a few before placing them in her little wicker basket. She would let him choose one for himself, beaming with pride as he'd place his little flower in the basket beside hers.

Prizes obtained, he remembered his mother's soft hand encasing his protectively as they walked back to their house. Once they got there, his mother would grab their book (the one they kept hidden from _him_ ) where they would check on how the others were progressing. These times with his mother were some of the only he ever felt at peace.

Once the sperm donor found out about their hobby, he beat his mother within an inch of her life for teaching it to him before he beat him for participating in such a 'sissy' thing.

He smiled to himself. Out of all the murders he committed in his life, his father's was still his favorite. He liked to think his mother was proud of him for it.

He cast violet eyes down to his book, the same one his mother used so many years ago. Pulling the pressing paper from the back, he gently set the little purple flower he had just picked between the pages. Once it was secured, he wedged it between the next available pages before shutting it with a decisive snap. That same sense of peace came over him, and he closed his eyes to relish the feeling. Satisfied, he pulled out a scroll, sealing his book away until he found another flower that caught his interest during his roaming.

He sighed. He prayed to Jashin fucking Kakuzu never found out about this. He still hadn't figured out how to kill that bastard, and he had too long a life to be fucked with about his weird-ass hobbies.


	2. Sasori

A/N: Hello again, everyone! Thanks so much for your interest and reviews!

Disclaimer: I own nothing related to _Naruto_!

 **WARNINGS** : None this chapter.

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 _Sasori_

They were just some stupid toys his father picked up after a mission in some far away village. He honestly should have gotten rid of them ages ago, but every time he went to dispose of them, something would stop him, and he would put their small trunk back into its spot hidden away in his workshop.

He knew it was ridiculous. He had life-size puppets now, so what did he need puerile marionettes for?

As he worked on his newest project, his thoughts drifted to the little puppets. His father had presented him with them only weeks before both his parents left for their fatal battle. He remembered the smile on his father's face when he pulled them out of the box they were in, his mother's face lighting up in amusement. He hadn't been so impressed, his young mind not quite understanding what the tiny people with strings were.

There were two of them. One was a woman, painted in the likeness of the geishas he had heard about from stories in distant lands. Her face was white, her lips red, and her hair was done in an intricate style for such a little doll. Her kimono was a mixture of vibrant reds, greens, oranges, and yellows, complete with maiko and tabi on her feet.

The other was a man, specifically a samurai. He wore a stern expression, as he imagined samurai did, with his hair in a tight bun at the back of his head. His armor was gray, and he had a miniature sword strapped to his side.

As he stared at them in wonder and confusion, he heard his father chuckle. When honey met purple, his father had picked up the pint-sized geisha, positioning the wooden handle between his fingers. With a patience he hadn't inherited, his father explained how to move the puppets to play with them. He remembered the excitement he had felt, comprehension donning on him.

He had practiced for hours after that, easily perfecting the art of marionette. He would put on little shows for his parents, and sometimes his grandmother, every night. He had even named the puppets, calling the geisha 'Onna' and the samurai 'Otoko'. He remembered the feeling of them watching his performances, how much happiness and peace he felt. He never knew how much joy a puppet could bring until he had Onna and Otoko. Even after his parents had left, he continued preparing shows for their return. One that would never come.

Now, Onna and Otoko stayed locked away, much like his emotions. He only ever took them out a whim, when the mood struck him.

He set down his tool, sighing to himself. He directed his lazy gaze in the direction of their hiding place, contemplating. Deidara would be gone for a few more hours, so there was time now. He rose from his work bench, the stool sliding back, as he strode over to the trunk. He pulled it off the shelf, dust flying around him; it really had been quite some time. As he sat back down at his work bench, he wiped the remaining dust off the trunk before opening it slowly. There sat the geisha and samurai, slightly faded after so many years, but still in near-perfect condition. He reached in, grasping their wooden handles to gently pull them out.

He used his mastery puppet skills to gracefully move them to and fro across the table, acting out a brief show in his head. He felt the corners of his lips twitch as he did so, that feeling of peace washing over him. Once he reached the end of his show, he paused, frowning slightly. This wasn't right; he wasn't supposed to be feeling anything, especially not _peace_ or _happiness_. He shook his head before placing the puppets back into their trunk. He put them back on the shelf before roughly taking his place back at the work bench. He quickly reclaimed his discarded tool, immersing himself in his latest creation.

Ridiculous. He really should just get rid of those things.

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A/N: 'Onna' means 'woman', and 'Otoko' means 'man'. :)

I really just like the idea of Sasori putting on little puppet shows for himself. I don't know, it's just so _CUTE_! cx


	3. Kisame

A/N: Hello, everyone! Here's the next installment of _Behind the Mask_!

Disclaimer: I own nothing related to _Naruto_!

 **WARNINGS** : None this chapter. (As a side note, we obviously don't know much about some of the different member's childhoods, so I'm taking a few liberties!)

* * *

 _Kisame_

If anyone knew, he'd probably never hear the end of it. After all, someone like him really shouldn't, _couldn't_ , be into something artsy and sensitive like poetry.

He knew how people saw him. He was too big, too freakish-looking, _too_ _dumb_ to understand the intricacies of poetry. Hell, he was sure most people assumed he didn't even know how to read. But in those dark, bleak days as a Kiri ninja, he had found a light in the faded old books of the bookshelf in his lonely home.

Both his parents had been killed when he was a young child; he could still remember looking down at their bloody, mangled bodies. His first introduction to shinobi life. Unfortunately, he wasn't the only victim of Blood Mist Village, and there were countless orphanages dotted around the village to take kids like him in. Yet, because of his appearance, none of the orphanages were willing to take him. So he just lived in his home, parent-less and on his own. It was a fate he resigned himself to, forever destined to be alone in this cruel world.

He grew up, feared and ostracized by the other villagers for his looks and raw power. One day, as he walked the empty halls and rooms of the small house, he finally took notice of the bookshelf tucked away in a corner of what used to be his father's study. Curious, he padded his way to the corner, crouching down to inspect the spines. His eyes honed in on a thicker text, gently pulling it off the shelf. He opened the book, inspecting the pages carefully, only to find verses lining them. In this abandoned study is where he read his first lines of poetry, specifically haiku.

He had been enthralled. Here was the beauty and elegance he had been searching for. These words wove stories of nature, and love, and _peace_. The one thing he was sure didn't exist in a world like his, yet these words spoke of it like it was a true concept. He had finally felt hope.

From there he discovered other forms of poetry: senryu; tanka; renga. While he enjoyed all of them, he found himself drawn more to the irony and cynicism of senryu. After graduating the academy and being assigned missions, he would use his money to buy new senryu books, often garnering strange stares and looks from the shopkeepers. He had learned long ago to ignore the way other people would look at him, more interested in getting home and indulging in his secret hobby.

He amassed quite the collection over the years, and before he defected from the village to join the Akatsuki he was sure to seal his sacred tomes away in a nondescript scroll. He didn't need any of these new 'comrades' coming across his poetry. Thankfully, his partner Itachi was the type of guy to keep to himself, so there was never much worry about him being nosey.

He glanced around. Itachi had gone off to scout a small town for their next target, leaving him alone in a small clearing to wait until his return. The Uchiha hadn't been gone long, and he was sure he wouldn't be coming back for at least an hour. Reaching into his cloak, he pulled the sealing scroll from the hidden pocket, easily summoning his favorite volume. Settling in against a shady tree, he allowed himself to get lost in the familiar words, as well as the sense of peace and hope they brought.

Hopefully Itachi didn't decide to return early.

* * *

A/N: I know that the Databook tells us the hobbies of different characters (Kisame's, for example, is actually caring for Samehada), but I want to take an opportunity to look deeper at the characters and bypass the obvious! :) So the topics of this story are not going to be identical to what the Databook tells us. Hopefully you all will still enjoy the story!


	4. Nagato(Pein)

A/N: Hello, everyone!

I apologize for the delay; I had a baby! So I've been a little preoccupied with newborn infant life. x.x So for everyone that's still reading, I appreciate your patience!

Disclaimer: I own nothing relating to _Naruto_!

 **WARNINGS** : None this chapter

* * *

 _Nagato (Pein)_

It was something he found he had a knack for, despite appearances.

He knew he hardly look like a comedian. With his strange red hair (damn Uzumaki genes), creepy Rinnegan eyes, ghostly pale skin, and seemingly gloomy disposition, he looked more at home in the constant rainfall of Ame than he felt he did.

His father was a doctor, his mother a nurse, so it wasn't uncommon for injured people from the nearby village to seek aid at his house. He was a shy kid, but he enjoyed listening to the stories the ninja would tell. It was during one of these visits that he heard his first joke.

He could never forget the day. His parents were in the kitchen, getting everything they'd need to set this man's broken leg, while he sat in the living room with him. He had always been an older soul; a kid beyond his years, he could clearly see the man trying to keep a calm façade for him despite the obvious pain he was in. The man was in the middle of another short story of a recent mission when he paused.

He had tilted his head, wondering if something was wrong. The man coughed, face pinching and eyes shut, before he released a long, shaky breath. He contemplated going to get his parents when the man looked at him. "Hey, kid," he started, his voice gruff. "Wanna hear a joke about a piece of paper?"

He nodded, not really understanding what a 'joke' was.

The guy waited a moment before shaking his head, smiling broadly. "Never mind. It's _tearable_!" His boisterous laughter rang out in the quiet living room. His brow furrowed in confusion, wondering if delirium was causing the man to lose his mind. Perhaps it was time to go get his parents.

The man noticed he was the only one laughing at this 'joke'. "What's the matter, kid? Don't you get it?" When he shook his head, the man frowned. " _Tearable_? Y'know, like tearing? Paper tears, so it's a play on the word." The man sighed. "I mean, it's not that funny if I have to explain it."

As the explanation processed, he found himself slowly smiling. The man noticed the change, starting to grin also. "Hey, kid, do you get it now?"

He nodded quickly. "Yes," he replied, his soft voice painted with uncharacteristic excitement. "Can you tell me another?"

From that day on, he asked for jokes from every patient that visited his home. While some denied his request, he found most willing to share at least their favorite one with him. Before his parents were murdered by the Konoha ninja that invaded his home, he had amassed quite the collection of jokes. In his wandering days, he would recite his jokes to himself or his furry companion Chibi to make his situation seem less grim. Once he met Yahiko and Konan, they became his new audience, as did Jiraiya-sensei once the veteran ninja took the ragtag orphans under his wing.

He never would have imagined it, but in those days of turmoil and strife the silly puns and quips became his source of joy and peace. He felt a sense of purpose and satisfaction once he finally got someone to laugh. Seeing their amused expressions almost made him forget about all of life's pain he had endured.

Then Yahiko died, and he began to think he knew nothing of the word peace. If it wasn't for Konan, he was sure he'd still be lost. He remembered how she held his broken body against her, tears streaming down her face as the aftermath of his rampage laid around them. Her voice was shaky as she asked him if he wanted to hear a joke about a piece of paper. He had laughed mirthlessly as he responded with ' _no, it's probably_ tearable _._ '

Slowly life moved forward after that day. He took outward leadership of the Akatsuki, with Madara calling shots from the shadows, using Yahiko's body with his Six Paths to bring about true peace to this awful world. Despite all that, he still found solace in his jokes, even though he really only shared them with Konan now. The future God of the world can't be much of a comedian, after all.

His blue-haired friend had stopped by to check on him, as she usually did. Her visits often brought up feelings of melancholy, a sense of longing for simpler days, but he welcomed them all the same. Yet, he couldn't help but notice she seemed distracted by something today, a troubled air around her. He knew how to cheer her up though.

"Konan," he called as she turned to leave. His raspy voice was a sad reminder of all they had been through together.

"Yes, Nagato?" she replied, glancing over her shoulder. "Did you need something else?"

"You want to hear a joke about a piece of paper?" She turned fully, nodding as she crossed her arms over her chest. He shook his head, lips already tilting upward. "Never mind, it's _tearable_."

He saw Konan's eyes roll, the scant light of their secret hideout glinting off her labret piercing as she smiled uncontrollably. "It is every time." Her stare softened as she looked at his pathetic state. "You know, I think that one is my favorite."

He had to agree. It was his favorite, too.

* * *

A/N: According to Google, the Japanese find puns ("dad jokes") funny. :) Cuz, you know, every culture has their own definition of what's humorous!

Nagato is such a doom-and-gloom character. I thought it'd be nice to give him a little reprieve. ^_^ Who says he can't be a little comedian!


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